I know. That’s what you want us all to think, when we look out
at the weather, and ask ourselves
how far away are we really, from the brink
of despair. Of self-destruction. Of the real monsters’ lair:
how far do we have to go, to be treated in a way that is fair?
What else do you want to force us to sacrifice?
How else do you want to fail to repair
our relationship. The fucking Singaporean sense of citizenship
which has been so cauterised and mutilated that it is difficult even to strip
projections from my own mind sometimes. It is nigh-impossible to resist
the temptation to write a journal article about it.
Or a poem. Or a play. Or a list.
Or a litany, as you would probably prefer us to write.
I think you think I think you think I get the gist
of just how bad things are behind
the scenes that you try to hammer into some form of workable light
for the stage. I am not sure if there enough trochees
to break the irregular rhythm of the Singapore heartbeat. I insist
that something must be done about the rhyme scheme. The elisions and spondees
that just make it so hard to know where to pause nowadays.
I heard that you heard that I heard that I’m unfazed
by your fear of what’s coming:
not even the non-binary, and the Kristang, and the gay,
but by what must happen by September,
somehow and someday
soon.
The ocean is so fucking restless.
Would that the sun would actually, for once,
set at high noon.